


Shoot First, Ask Questions Later

by ladivvinatravestia



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Defining the Relationship, Fade to Black, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Redania Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23046046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladivvinatravestia/pseuds/ladivvinatravestia
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier fuck, then try to define their relationship.  Too bad Geralt has no idea what he really wants and Jaskier has been hiding something.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 334





	Shoot First, Ask Questions Later

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s notes: This is based almost entirely on the TV series, but the something that Jaskier has been hiding is drawn from the books and could be considered a spoiler for them, although it plays out differently here than it does in the books.
> 
> Additional warnings: References to past abusive relationships; characters refer to engaging in sex work.
> 
> Many thanks to [SwashbuckLore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwashbuckLore/profile) for the beta!

Geralt leaves Jaskier sleeping and makes his way down to the common room to break his fast. Even under normal circumstances, Jaskier is not at his best in the morning, and, Geralt thinks, with a certain sense of satisfaction, Jaskier may be in particular need of additional sleep after last night.

The innkeeper drops a mug of ale and a bowl of lukewarm pease porridge in front of Geralt at the table, together with a highly-perfumed letter bearing the seal of a noble Temerian house he doesn’t recognize. He wrinkles his nose and pushes the letter far enough away that it won’t interfere too much with the taste of his porridge.

“Love letter for your boy from Brugge,” says the innkeeper.

“Hmm,” says Geralt, not exactly in the mood to make conversation, but the innkeeper continues.

“Best not to let him keep so many lovers. You’re not careful, he’ll be letting some noble set him up in some nice villa somewhere.”

Geralt’s pretty sure that if what Jaskier really wanted was to be kept in style in a villa, he’d have it already, but it does bring up an interesting question. They’ve been in the habit of traveling apart as much as they travel together. Now that they’ve finally fucked, will that change? Maybe they should have talked about that before falling into bed together but - Geralt is shite at talking. The innkeeper, though, is still talking, elaborating at length on the inevitably-fickle nature of “artistic, sensitive types,” until Geralt wonders whether their words of caution are coming from personal experience of heartbreak.

Geralt drains the last of his ale and stands up from the table. “Another serving for the bard,” he tells them.

Back upstairs, Jaskier’s head emerges from underneath his pillow when he hears Geralt setting the ale and porridge down on the side table. He squints and rubs his eyes, his hair sticking up all over the place. It makes Geralt’s insides feel all twisted up in the place where he is not supposed to have any feelings at all, and he clenches his fist to avoid reaching out to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair to smooth it down.

“Ooh, breakfast in bed,” purrs Jaskier, sitting up and throwing off the bed clothes. He is gloriously naked and covered in the bite marks that Geralt left last night. “If I’d known I would merit this kind of special treatment, I would have tried seducing you  _ much _ sooner.”

What Geralt remembers is less of a seduction on Jaskier’s part and more of an exasperated intervention on Geralt’s part in a bar fight that Jaskier hadn’t started and was surely not going to win. An intervention that had somehow turned to ardent kissing in the inn’s stairwell, and had barely made it back to their room before becoming indecent.

“Don’t assume it’s going to become a regular pattern,” says Geralt, and reaches for his kit bag. He has some rotfiends to go out and kill today.

Jaskier takes a sharp breath in; his hands curl against the mattress. “Which part, the breakfast, or the, uh,” he begins.

Geralt does not want to hear whatever cute euphemism Jaskier is going to come up with for “fucking” this morning, and he also doesn’t want to leave Jaskier in any doubt about his intentions. He reaches forward to snag Jaskier by the wrist, pulling him into his lap.

“The  _ fucking _ can keep happening any time you want it to,” he says, which is a lot of words in a row for Geralt. He carefully does not look at the love letter from Temeria. “But you can get your own damn breakfast tomorrow.”

“Um,” says Jaskier, looking dazed. “Okay.”

This time Geralt does allow himself to bury his hand in Jaskier’s hair and give him another kiss.

“Yes, very, very okay,” Jaskier says, removing himself with some reluctance from Geralt’s lap to look for something to wear. Their clothing had ended up rather scattered around the room last night. Geralt remembers tearing at Jaskier’s shirt in his impatience to remove it, and then, later, using it to clean up some of the mess they’d made.

“Sorry about your shirt,” he says.

Jaskier finds the shirt in question and pulls it on over his head. It musses his hair again, and no matter how he adjusts it, it’s now determined to hang off his left shoulder.

Jaskier takes three times as long as an ordinary person might to finish his breakfast because he is speaking of everything and nothing at the same time, but by the time he is finished, Geralt has finished sharpening his swords and checking he has the right potions in his pack for today’s hunt. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the love letter, and Geralt can’t decide how he feels about that. Does he  _ want _ Jaskier to suddenly throw over all of his other lovers in order to concentrate all of his affections on Geralt? Does Jaskier think that Geralt won’t tolerate him having any other lovers? Does Jaskier expect Geralt not to have any other lovers? Fuck, they should have talked before fucking.

“Coming to hunt the rotfiends?” he asks instead, crossing the room to put his hand on the door handle. It’s normally something he would strongly discourage and he knows that Jaskier knows it.

Jaskier trails him to the door, still in nothing but that ruined shirt. Gives him bedroom eyes, languidly runs a hand through his own hair.

“Oh, no, I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it when you get back like you always do,” he says with a wink. “I’m afraid you wore me out so thoroughly last night that I’d be even more of a liability to you than I usually - mmf!”

Geralt decides he is less interested in hearing the end of whatever Jaskier was about to say than he is in kissing him again before he leaves. Jaskier is right. Why  _ didn’t _ they do this a long time ago?

~~

Geralt comes back in the late afternoon with the heads of three rotfiends and Jaskier is waiting for him anxiously in the common room of the inn. It’s nothing he wouldn’t have done before, which feels reassuring. Maybe nothing will have to change between them, except for the parts that have already got better.

Jaskier herds Geralt up the stairs to their room, where there is a bath steaming and a full plate of cheese, sausage, pickles, and bread waiting next to a full tankard of ale. Maybe - something changed between them a long time ago, and this was only the last piece of the puzzle still waiting to fall into place.

Except that, strewn all over the bed - the very same bed they fucked in last night - are Jaskier’s lute, his wax tablet, the love letter from Brugge, assorted other papers, and a half-written response that already, seemingly, runs to two pages. Jaskier doesn’t give it a second look while he’s helping Geralt out of his armor, though, so Geralt tries to pay it no further mind himself.

He teases Geralt and steals tidbits from his plate and helps wash blood and muck from his hair, none of which is new, and allows himself to be coaxed into the bath alongside Geralt, which is new and very welcome, and then both of them forget about everything except each other for a while.

Much later, after Jaskier’s musical stylings in the common room have earned them almost as much coin as the three rotfiends, they return arm in arm to their room and Jaskier breaks away from Geralt when he sees the mess still sitting on the bed, his heart rate rising in mild alarm.

“Oh, shit, shit, shit,” he says, gathering up the papers, “I didn’t finish writing my fucking letter.” Which does not, if Geralt is being completely honest with himself, sound like the sort of reaction someone as incurably romantic as Jaskier would have about a love letter.

“You can finish it now?” suggests Geralt.

“You, um, don’t mind?” Jaskier asks, hugging the papers to himself and looking at Geralt with wide eyes that are a good match for his level of physical anxiety.

“It’s a contract, right?” Geralt guesses.

“A contract,” Jaskier repeats, narrowing his eyes, but his heart rate is still elevated.

“Come play at this betrothal ball, or something,” says Geralt.

Jaskier relaxes, outwardly and inwardly, and puts his papers down on the table. “The innkeeper told you it was a love letter,” he says.

“If it were, you’d be mooning over it, not swearing at it,” Geralt points out.

Jaskier leans back against the table. “That’s true,” he agrees, drawing out the word in a way that suggests he’s suspicious of how easily Geralt figured him out. As though he doesn’t know that Geralt can smell the pheromones and hear the heart rate changes that indicate when humans are lying, or scared, or aroused. As though he and Geralt haven’t been friends for the better part of ten years. “But what are you going to do?”

Geralt thinks back over the many, many evenings he’s previously shared with Jaskier, either in inns or on the road. Occasionally, they do things together - play at Gwent or dice. But more often, they sit side by side, each working on their own things - correspondence, songwriting, and cooking for Jaskier, and mending clothes, cleaning weapons and armor, and making potions for Geralt. Has Jaskier somehow concluded that Geralt will now want him to spend all his time and attention focused on Geralt? Geralt may not have thought through everything that he would like to see change now that they’ve fucked, but he definitely does not want Jaskier giving up all of his other activities. Now, how to show all that to Jaskier.

“Where’s your shirt?” he asks.

Jaskier frowns and looks down at himself. “I’m wearing it,” he says, plucking at his collar.

“No, the one from last night,” Geralt corrects.

“Oh!” says Jaskier, flushing quite attractively.

“I’ll have a go at fixing it,” says Geralt. Jaskier seems about ready to object that he doesn’t have to, but Geralt stops him before he can say anything. “My fault it’s ripped,” he says, which seems to turn Jaskier back into his normal, flirtatious self.

“As though I could possibly forget,” he grins, crossing unnecessarily into Geralt’s personal space to dig the ruined shirt out of his pack.

Geralt has never paid particular attention to Jaskier’s letter-writing before. He doesn’t feel especially good about himself for paying so much attention this time. He doesn’t want to be the kind of lover who jealously monitors every moment his beloved is not paying attention to him, especially since it seems that Jaskier may have been in the clutches of such lovers before. But he runs out of mending long before Jaskier finishes his letter, and he can’t help but notice that the process involves writing something in the wax tablet, humming and counting on his fingers, writing something else in the wax tablet, writing something much wordier in the letter, and then very thoroughly erasing everything on the tablet. Which is - Geralt feels a little embarrassed that it comes as such a complete surprise to him that Jaskier might be involved in activities that involve covert communications.

Eventually, only a few hours before dawn, Jaskier crawls sleepily into the bed and Geralt’s arms.

“The Crown Prince of Brugge’s name-day,” he begins, before interrupting himself with a jaw-splitting yawn.

“Sshh,” says Geralt, pulling him closer. “Talk tomorrow.”

~~

The next morning, Jaskier gives the innkeeper his letter to post as soon as possible, and then, over breakfast, explains much more diffidently than usual that he’s been invited to play at the Crown Prince of Brugge’s sixteenth name-day ball. If Geralt wants, and doesn’t have any pressing contracts for monsters to kill, it would be nice if - that is, Jaskier would really rather like it if - Geralt could find the time in his schedule to accompany him. Behind Jaskier, the innkeeper is making signs that suggest that if Geralt doesn’t accompany Jaskier, the previously-predicted villa will materialize and Geralt will never see him again, but to Geralt, it sounds much more like Jaskier would very much like him to come but is afraid of looking too needy or demanding. Geralt still isn’t sure where things should go between them, but he can be sure that he wants to treat Jaskier better than it seems his previous lovers have done.

“Plenty of monsters to kill on the way to Brugge,” he says.

On the road, Jaskier fills the silence with speculation on who’s likely to be at the ball, who has been seen with who, whose trading ventures are like to have recently made them wealthy, and the like.

“And how many of them want to kill you?” Geralt asks him. They’re not in a hurry and the road is easy, so they’re both walking.

“You mean, um, how many of them have I shared a night of unforgettable passion with?” asks Jaskier, his heart rate starting to increase.

“No,” says Geralt, and Jaskier stops to scuff his toe in the dirt.

“Because, Geralt, you must have noticed that I have a tendency to -”

“Fall into bed with everyone you meet?” Geralt interrupts. He stops Roach, so they won’t get too far ahead of Jaskier.

“I fall in love a lot,” mutters Jaskier, still looking at the ground.

“That you do,” Geralt agrees.

Jaskier crosses his arms defensively, his shoulders hunching up around his ears, and his heart rate increases even further. “Fuck, I knew this was a bad idea,” he starts.

“I’m not jealous,” Geralt interrupts, before he can say any more.

That seems to slow the rapid increase of Jaskier’s heart rate. “You’re not?” he says.

“No,” says Geralt. He really is shite at talking. Why can’t there just be a way of  _ showing _ Jaskier he’s going to treat him right?

Jaskier regards Geralt carefully, his head cocked to one side, as though he can read Geralt for signs of lying. It occurs to Geralt that, if he’s involved in things that involve covert communications, he might also have made a study of signs of deception more evident to humans. “You, uh, really mean that,” he says.

Roach snorts and stamps her foot, annoyed with the delay and the suggestion that Geralt might be lying. “I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Geralt says, trying not to let his annoyance with everyone who has previously mistreated Jaskier show through.

“Sorry, it’s just, you know,” Jaskier’s heart rate is still elevated above normal. “I’m much more used to women who want to yell and throw things and men who -” He bites his lip and looks away. 

Geralt has more familiarity with men like this than he would like. He also knows he has a tendency to snap and snarl when he’s feeling what humans might classify as emotions. He keeps his voice as even and calming as possible as he says, “I won’t do that.”

Jaskier continues studying him intently, and whatever he sees must satisfy him, because eventually he lets out the breath he has been holding and says, “Okay. Okay, you won’t. I believe you.” His posture relaxes and, after another momentary pause, he starts walking again. 

As Geralt is wondering whether there is some kind of reassuring gesture he can make, Jaskier resumes his cheery patter. He’s saying, “-because I think you should know, when I’m going off with someone at some soiree, it’s not always a love affair.”

Geralt snorts. “No shame in relieving some noble of their boredom and their coin. I’ve done it a time or two.”

There’s a distinct pause, and then Jaskier makes a sort of wheezing sound. “That’s not - okay, that is -”

“You got more than just a coin or two from the arrangement,” Geralt guesses. After all, there was that villa the innkeeper kept mentioning. Jaskier’s nostrils flare in annoyance. “And you counted it a love affair anyway,” Geralt adds.

Jaskier throws his hands up in the air dramatically and quickens his pace.

“I don’t know why I bother, since you obviously know me so well I needn’t say anything at all,” he complains. But, crucially, the easy, teasing tone they’ve had with each other through the course of their friendship has returned.

“Suits me,” says Geralt, knowing it will goad Jaskier further.

“You complete and utter bastard,” says Jaskier from between clenched teeth, but his heart rate and smell suggest he’s neither angry nor scared.

They make it a few more moments in peace before Jaskier stops in his tracks again.

“No, dammit, I am actually trying to tell you something here,” he says. He looks uncharacteristically serious, so Geralt halts Roach.

“It’s not always a love affair, at those banquets and soirees,” Jaskier repeats.

“No,” agrees Geralt. “Sometimes it’s something you stayed up half the night writing a coded letter about.”

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt!” Jaskier swears, throwing his hands up in the air again.

“Which I never noticed before last night,” Geralt continues. Though, now that he thinks about it, a pattern is more visible. How often Jaskier has happened to know just the right court sorceress or captain of the guard to get them into someplace they weren’t supposed to be; how often his trysts have been with people who could be expected to be very close in their king’s or queen’s counsel; how often his earnings for a night of musical revelry seem disproportionate to the amount of revelry actually performed. How, even in the smallest and most suspicious of villages, Jaskier can somehow unearth all the secrets the villagers didn’t intend to divulge, within an hour or two of sunny chatter.

“So I would understand,” says Jaskier, sounding resigned, “if you truly didn’t want to keep going around with me any more.” His heart rate has increased again. Geralt had noticed before how often things made Jaskier anxious. He hadn’t been paying attention to how often it might have been him that was making Jaskier anxious, and he now makes a resolution to be the cause as infrequently as possible.

“Wasn’t my business before,” says Geralt, “still not my business now.”

“Oh yes, because you never get involved in political matters,” Jaskier persists.

“I try not to,” Geralt agrees. He smiles a wry smile, knowing that Jaskier knows exactly how well that turned out for him in Cintra. Then, hoping he’s been reassuring enough, he starts walking again, and so does Jaskier.

But, as though he’s reading Geralt’s mind, and picking up his thoughts in the middle of a sentence moreover, Jaskier says, “Oh, which, by the way, was  _ not _ a job. Cintra,” he clarifies, when Geralt cocks his head at him. “Or, well, it was a job, but not the part that you were involved in. I was only there to make sure that a certain candidate wasn’t selected, and I could tell within five minutes of getting there that he wasn’t going to be. Wasn’t even on the short list, in fact, which I suspect the - well, my employer - might not have been so flattered to know, but -”

“Why’d you need me there, then?” Geralt interrupts.

“Why, for the pleasure of your sparkling conversation, of course,” laughs Jaskier.

“Hmm,” says Geralt, which expresses everything he really needs to about that suggestion.

“I  _ really _ wanted to see you in that doublet and hose?” says Jaskier. It’s believable, but it’s still not true, and Geralt shakes his head, smiling.

Jaskier looks down to half hide the shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It was the first time I was an important enough guest to be allowed to bring a plus one, but I - I didn’t think you would be willing to just  _ go _ with me.”

“So you made up a story about aggrieved spouses you needed protection from,” says Geralt.

“I didn’t make up a story,” says Jaskier, injured. “You would have been able to tell I was lying.”

Geralt inclines his head in acknowledgment. There had been that weasel insisting Jaskier drop his trousers so he could be identified by his arse. “Next time,” he tells Jaskier, “just ask.”

“Geralt,” sighs Jaskier, “you don’t like fancy court soirees,  _ or _ my music.”

Geralt stops walking once more, and steps into Jaskier’s space so he can put his hands on Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier looks up at him, heart pounding but blue eyes wide and hopeful. “No,” says Geralt, “but I do like you.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on [tumblr](https://ladivvinatravestia.tumblr.com) where my ask box is always open for prompts!


End file.
